“Such self-restraint,” Anne, my current book-editing project pimp and former Sassy colleague, said when I told her my big news: that I’d met someone—on that infernal Northeast Corridor, no less—and that I hadn’t slept with him yet. “I’m impressed.”

I had called her to renegotiate my delivery date on a manuscript I was working on: Fat to Fit: 9 ½ Weeks to a Perfect Body. For once, I was actually trying to turn it in earlier than Anne needed it (in order to get paid sooner); she, for once, was trying to stall me (until the subtitle of the book was set in stone: the current one, it seemed, made too many in-house people worry that images of Mickey Rourke, Kim Basinger, and rolling around blindfolded on the floor in front of an open refrigerator full of whipped cream and strawberries were incompatible with women’s current notions of body-sculpting).

“You are?”

“Completely. I probably would have jumped him on the plane. Or on the ramp from the plane to the terminal. Or in the taxi back from the airport.”

I bit off, then spit out, a tiny piece of fingernail. What an idiot I was; what a missed opportunity. It wasn’t every year that a man that interesting and attractive (and frank) crossed my path.

“But then I’m a slut,” Anne continued. “A slut who hasn’t had sex in over a year.”

“I’m a slut, too, you know.”

And I hadn’t had sex in over two years.

“Of course you are.” Her tone was reassuring, conciliatory, ultimately condescending. “But obviously you’re more mature than I am.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one who’s older than me.”

“I was actually trying to pay you a compliment,” she said. “You know, like ‘you’re making healthy relationship choices’ and all that horseshit.” I heard her light a cigarette, then exhale. “Jesus, you’re away from New York for only a year and suddenly you’re so sensitive. ”

I closed my eyes and felt my cheeks redden. I was humiliated by what Washington had done to me—how it had made me lose my edge. I was also having a very strong nicotine fit. Listening to Anne light up over the phone, listening to her inhaling and exhaling, I could almost taste the tar and nicotine on my lips, on my tongue, against my teeth; could almost smell the smoke, see it snake into my mouth and down my throat. I had quit, cold turkey, three months before, and I only hoped this new pressure (three dates; a potential boyfriend) didn’t make me backslide.

“I know. It’s terrible. I’ve gotten soft.” I stopped short of apologizing, which made me realize all wasn’t entirely lost: I was still tough. Maybe too tough. My mind wandered; the camera inside my head pulled back, panned wide: scenes of my being tough on Donald on the shuttle flight back from New York about Adrienne three weeks earlier, and of being tough on him at the coffee shop at the National Gallery, and even being tough on him here and there on our three subsequent dinner dates. I got nervous, suddenly; decided it was time to change my strategy with him: be nice.